


An Experiment

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Basically, M/M, john angsting, kiss, sherlock experimenting, surprise gayness, yes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-10
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-07 11:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock kisses John for an experiment. But then he kisses him again. And again. Originally published here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6469141/1/An_Experiment</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A kiss.

It was so fast and so sudden, and John was so preoccupied with the newspaper, that he was caught off-guard. Sherlock just lunged at him, so that one moment he was staring at the face of some poor murdered woman, and the next - that of his flatmate, very close up indeed. John dropped the paper.

"Sherlock- what the- I thought you- what?"

"Experiment. Thinking. Shut up."

"Sherlock!" Maybe he should've left right then, slammed out of the flat like so many times when Sherlock pissed him off but.. He was stunned into his seat.

Sherlock moved in once again, still wearing the almost-emotionless, calculating expression he got when he was deducing something, which wasn't exactly a rare occurrence.

This time, John jerked backwards, away from the encroaching mouth, upsetting his mug off the arm of the chair. Neither of them registered the sound of smashing china. Neither of them moved for several hours- no, seconds. Just, very long seconds.

Finally Sherlock made another quick pounce, and this time, despite the soldier's best attempts, Watson was unable to escape.

He quickly became aware that he did not want to.


	2. Chapter 2

_You shouldn't let him use you. That's all he's doing; using you, for an experiment. Just another stupid experiment like the head in the fridge. There is no emotion here, John. You have to stop._

_Before you get hurt._

Sherlock's fingers hooked inside John's bottom lip, and pulled. John barely noticed until the pressure started. Nails scraping his gums, forcing into the gaps between his teeth until his jaws were pried apart. Not that it took much prying.

Sherlock's fingers tasted like chemicals and blood and dust, sweat and something else. Something odd. But good. Most definitely very good.

Before John barely had time to notice, Sherlock's mouth had left his to be replaced by the aforementioned fingers. Thumb holding his chin, the fingers toyed with his tongue for several delicious seconds before he remembered himself, and stopped.

Which certainly isn't to say Sherlock stopped. No, he just kept kissing and kissing until John's mouth was bruised and suddenly they were both in the armchair. Sherlock trod slid into the doctor's lap and his hands were everywhere and then…


	3. Chapter 3

Of course John hadn't expected Sherlock to stay and cuddle. He'd never really considered the man's post-coital tendencies, but for some reason he just hadn't expected Sherlock to simply slide off the sofa (at some point during his hazy memories they must've moved there from the armchair, for want of space) and leave.  
  
John Watson hadn't moved from the sofa since.  
  
It must've been several hours by now, almost a whole day since Sherlock had tumbled away from him. There had been no explanation, no checking his welfare - just a sudden rush of cold air as their bodies were separated. The sound of the shower running, Sherlock washing away any hints of John and their… activities down the drain. Maybe five minutes later, footsteps, the door falling shut.  
  
John groped for the blanket that hung over the back of the couch, because it was cold despite him clearly being able to hear the sound of the old central heating rattling around. _It_ wasn't cold. _He_ was.  
  
He lay there and counted his bruises, wrapped up in the scent and taste and sweat of Sherlock Holmes. Everything hurt: his lips were kiss-bruised and swollen; there were marks left from Sherlock's teeth and fingertips all down his neck and shoulders; scratches from fingernails across his ribs. He wondered vaguely if Sherlock was in a similar state. Unlikely.  
  
What the hell kind of experiment was that, anyway?If Sherlock had been looking to sleep with something, surely he knew the hiding-places of London's prostitutes - female and male. So it couldn't be just that - besides, he'd made it clear that he was something of an asexual creature. You don't… do… anything, then? Married to his work. Yeah, right. Prick.  
  
Eventually, John got up. He couldn't sleep even if he wanted to, and especially not there, still caked in the aftermath of… was it last night? John glanced at the clock as he very slowly padded through into the kitchen. Hard to tell; it was four o'clock in the afternoon, but he wasn't sure how long ago Sherlock had… Sherlock had left. Didn't matter, really.  
  
The motions of making tea were so heavily ingrained into John's fingers, he'd done so without noticing. He blinked at the mug in his hands, then sipped. And spat.  
  
"Oh, God-"  
  
The doctor slopped the liquid down the sink, then rinsed his mouth out as thoroughly as he could. Snarling internally at that bloody detective, he flung the fridge open and grabbed the carton of 'milk'. He unscrewed the top, sniffed, almost threw up at the smell. How had he not noticed that earlier?  
  
"Fuck you, Sherlock!"  
  
"Again?"  
  
He dropped the milk.  
  
Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, casual as anything, chucking his coat idly towards a chair. John stared at him in disbelief and irritation, clenching his fists as whatever had been in the milk carton seeped into the hems of his jeans. The great detective swooped down easily, brushing the floor with his fingers and producing a yellow sticky note, the edge of which was sodden and bleeding the ink.  
  
 _John,  
  
This is not milk.  
  
SH._  
  
"Oh, great, thanks." John scowled like a child, folding his arms. He attempted to march indignantly past Sherlock, but was caught by the arm. Plastering a glare on his features, he jerked away, suddenly reeling from the touch. _"WHAT?"_  
  
Sherlock's composure never slipped. Calm as ever, it seemed. Unlike John himself, whose heart was about to either escape his ribs or die trying.  
  
"John, calm down-"  
  
John gritted his teeth, walked away, left the flat. Halfway down the stairs he remembered that he had neither shoes nor a shirt, no money for taxi or a drink. Stupid stupid. He sat where he was, put his head in his hands and tugged at his hair and tried not to cry.  
  
He hadn't noticed the blood on Sherlock's face.


	4. Chapter 4

After about an hour, John had been discovered on the stairs by Mrs Hudson. She'd enquired about them having "a little falling-out", then asked/practically-bodily-forced him down for cheesecake and several cups of sweet tea. He used the _excuse Sherlock had a problem with an experiment_ to explain his lack of shirt, and it wasn't entirely a lie. Dear Mrs Hudson said _you must be freezing, John_ and wrapped him up in one of her dead husband's horrible cardies, complete with essence of mothball, then turned the heating right up. Despite the discomfort this proved to be, it gave him a chance to subtly shift the conversation topic to the delightful English weather.  
  
By the fourth cup of tea, John had done quite a bit of thinking. He had decided that the 'milk' thing wasn't really Sherlock's fault, so if it was cleaned up by the time he returned to the flat - unlikely - then that could be forgotten. As for the walking-off-after-random-sex bit… well, that could be dealt with after he addressed the events that led up to it.  
  
Half way through the sixth cup of tea, when John was just reaching the point of making his excuses and leaving, his phone vibrated in his pocket with a text. He hadn't realised it was still in there, so it startled him slightly. The text was from Sherlock.  
  
 _NEED MEDICAL ATTENTION.  
  
COME HOME.  
  
SH_


	5. Chapter 5

John was still wearing Mr Hudson's cardigan when he got back to the flat. Sherlock was lying across the sofa, fingers steepled, bleeding all over his white shirt.  
  
"Ah, John." He spoke without turning his head. The blood was clearly coming from Sherlock's nose, spilling over his lips and dripping into his mouth as he addressed his colleague. It made him sound almost as if he had a cold or something. "How is Mrs Hudson?"  
  
"She- wha- a- Sherlock!"  
  
Sherlock blinked.  
  
"Wh-why do you need medical attention?" John gestured wildly in the general direction of the large amount of Sherlock's blood, "What did you _do_?"  
  
"Nose broken, need you to set it."  
  
John suspected that Sherlock could've easily managed a broken nose alone. He approached with caution anyway, then stopped short.  
  
"Hold on, Sherlock, when was this? And- how, exactly?"  
  
"Just before I got back, 'bout and hour ago. -Anderson."  
  
"Anderson did… what?"  
  
"Hit me."  
  
"…Hit you."  
  
 _"Yes."_  
  
"I see. And this was…"  
  
"About an hour ago, I got back just before you left."  
  
John frowned.  
  
"So- wait- how didn't I _notice_?"  
  
"A - you were distracted. B - You weren't looking anywhere near my face, C - I'd had my sleeve pressed against my nose on the way back. Thought the bleeding had stopped," he licked his lips, grimacing slightly, "Apparently not."  
  
John sighed heavily in something like defeat, turning from the room, followed by Sherlock's grey gaze. Less than a minute later, he had returned with a bright green first-aid kit and a large wad of tissues.  
  
It turned out that, not surprisingly, Sherlock's nose was pretty much fine already. Broken, yes, but the bones were in the right places. All John could really do was slap a couple of plasters over the face of the quietly protesting detective and then kneel by the sofa, pressing tissues against the awful man's nose, as his arms were seemingly not working.  
  
"So, um… why did Anderson hit you? What did you say?"  
  
"Well, he and Donovan-"  
  
"Yeah? Great. Well done, Sherlock."  
  
Silence. Quite some time later, John noticed the sofa. That sofa, upon which…  
  
"Um… Sherlock?"

"Mh?"

"How… how did the experiment go?"  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly.  
  
"Well, I had originally thought it to be _human_ flesh, but the reactions to the-"  
  
"…no, no, not _that_ experiment…" John, realising that any bleeding obviously must've stopped a while ago, released the tissues he been using to staunch it. Sherlock miraculously regained the use of his arms and caught the bloodied article before it reached his chest, using it to mop up the majority of the blood around his mouth and nose. "The one involving me. Remember?" John's voice was almost perfectly steady, his eyes fixed on a spot several inches below Sherlock's face.  
  
"…ah. Yes. Hm… I think… I need more data."  
  
John paused. Frowned, then looked up to find Sherlock on his side, staring at him with a frightening intensity whilst somehow staying impassive.  
  
Sherlock moved in.  
  
John jolted backwards.  
  
So Sherlock held John in place by the hair at the nape of his neck and kissed him until John dissolved into a panting mess of hungry, shameful submission and abandoned thoughts, reckless, kissing back.  
  
Sherlock tasted of blood.


	6. Chapter 6

"So- uh- w-what… was the aim… of that experiment, Sherlock, …exactly?"  
  
Breath was still managing to evade the confines of John Watson's lungs, causing him to gasp in air after every couple of words. Irritatingly, Sherlock Holmes seemed to be perfectly fine. The man was practically comatose, other than the pianist fingers toying subconsciously with a curl of John's hair.  
  
Sherlock hmmed in response to the question, letting his hand fall away from the doctor's head to rest like a dead spider on the pillow. Pillow. Last night, or perhaps this morning, they had made it to somebody's bed. Whose bed was yet to be discovered - but a bed nonetheless. The sheets were impossible to tell from one to an other, strewn and twisted and tangled around various body parts as they were. But there was a duvet, or at least something that served as such, wrapped around the two bodies, keeping them warm due to apparently broken central heating.  
  
And then, of course, there was Sherlock Holmes. John couldn't fathom why he was still there - it had been a several minutes post-coital, and the detective had yet to slide away in that annoyingly suave way he had.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"It was a study in human behaviour."  
  
John sighed. He had expected as much, really. He supposed, since he was the human being Sherlock had most regular contact with, it would have to be him. What Sherlock could stand to gain from such an experiment, John couldn't quite understand, but he was far too drained now to demand an explanation.  
  
"Uh… hm… so… do you have enough 'data' now?"  
  
A pause. A nod.  
  
"…Any results?"  
  
"…"  
  
"Sherlock?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
More silence. Not exactly awkward, but getting there; the two were nestled side by side on the bed, both on their backs, staring pointedly upwards and not at each other. John became very aware of the close proximity of Sherlock's hand to his and curled his fingers in the opposite direction.  
  
"So, uhm, what did you… discover? Anything I should be aware of?"  
  
Sherlock was quiet for such a long time that John wondered fleetingly if he'd fallen asleep - but surely not. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't randomly drift off, especially not having just been asked a question.  
  
Sherlock shifted, turning so he was facing John before waiting for the doctor to catch on. He stared excruciatingly into John's eyes for so long that time seemed to stop; then he spoke.  
  
"John, I think I'm in love with you."  
 _  
End._


End file.
